


A Matter of Trust

by taoroo



Series: The Bonds of Brotherhood [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Corporal Punishment, Family Feels, Feels, M/M, Spanking, d'Artagnan gets what's coming to him, it was only a matter of time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-27
Updated: 2015-04-27
Packaged: 2018-03-26 01:50:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3832573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taoroo/pseuds/taoroo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Taking place within the episdoe "The Challenge" s01e08. After rescuing d'Artagnan from the clutches of LaBarge, Athos and his fellow Musketeers find a new way to see that their young friend thinks twice before getting himself into any more danger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Matter of Trust

"What did I tell you about thinking before you act?"

The night was a downpour, soaking Athos and d'Artagnan in seconds. They leant against a wall, regaining their breath after their swift exit from the Bastille. D'Artagnan ached from the attentions of LaBarge, his neck sore from where the man had tried to break it, only spared seconds before by Athos. That he had been so close to dealing justice to the man responsible for his current misfortunes, only to have it snatched away, ate at him. Athos' words only added fuel to his fiery rage.

"I can't help it, I'm not like you," he growled spitefully.

"You are," Athos jabbed a finger toward his young charge, "More than you know."

Athos paused, reigning in his obvious anger. He cast about the empty square, squinting through the deluge and then seemed to come to a decision.

"Come with me," he said in his usual growl, all traces of ill humour seemingly departed. He took a firm but somewhat comforting grip of d'Artagnan's upper arm and led him away from the Bastille.

"Where are we going?" d'Artagnan asked, finding that he needed to trot to keep pace with Athos' determined stride.

"Away from the Bastille and this cursed rain."

That was enough for d'Artagnan. He placed his trust in Athos to know their destination, and instead occupied his thoughts with LaBarge and what unpleasant things he would do to the man if he had the fortune to meet him once more.

D'Artagnan's daydreams came to an end at the door of a nondescript house in a part of town not two streets from the Musketeer garrison. Athos opened it with a key and ushered his young charge inside.

A lamp was lit, illuminating a small, bare parlour. D'Artagnan waited, dripping upon the bare boards as Athos disappeared into the depths of the house. Clearly this was the man's lodgings. It somehow didn't surprise the young Gascon that his mentor lived in such uninspired surroundings.

"Here," the man returned, throwing him a rough woollen towel, another slung about his shoulders. "Let's see what we can do about the clothes."

D'Artagnan followed Athos up the stairs, noting as he did so that they creaked only under his feet and not their master's. Clearly Athos was as cautious of attack here as he was when on mission.

A bedchamber at the top of the stairs was as nondescript as the rest. A single cot bed was laid with serviceable linens, the only other furnishings being a clothes hamper, table and matching chairs. Even the receptacle for the man's nightsoil was a plain copper pot instead of ceramic. That of course would be far too much of a personal touch, d'Artagnan thought to himself with a wry twist of his lips.

Athos meanwhile had been rummaging in his hamper and soon turned to pass him a bundle.

"Get changed," he gruffed, almost an order.

D'Artagnan unfolded the billowing shirt and raised a speculative brow. "Somehow I think they will not fit me."

"Just do it," Athos snapped, and this time it really was an order.

They dressed in silence, d'Artagnan with some trepidation as he watched the tell-tale signs of anger in his friend's rigid movements.

"You're right, Athos," he said, hoping to make an early defence against the scolding he was certain was not far away. "I acted foolishly. I owe you my life."

Athos did not speak at first and this silence stretched between them like a taughtened bow. Then Athos turned to face the young Gascon and gave him such a smouldering assessment from his crown to his boots that d'Artagnan was impressed with himself to have withstood it.

"Correct, sir," he said, the word so clipped it near finished before it began. "Did I not say to you only this morning, "Head over heart"?"

D'Artagnan found himself dry, and tried to wet his lips to give voice to his defence. Before he could, Athos began again.

"Do you trust me?"

"With my life," d'Artagnan scoffed.

"And Aramis and Porthos?"

"Of course!"

"Captain Treville?"

"I trust you all," d'Artagnan said, his voice a whisper, hurt to be asked such a thing.

Athos grunted. He folded his arms and strode with deliberate slowness about his room, head bowed as if attempting to solve a difficult puzzle.

"You are aware that we operate to the laws of this land, to the laws of His Majesty the King of France. And you are aware," he continued, speaking over the boy in a tone not to be trifled with, "that LaBarge is to be tried in accordance to the King's laws, and will face a hangman's noose in short order."

"Yes," d'Artagnan mumbled, cowed by the irate glint in Athos' eye.

"Your pardon?"

"YES." D'Artagnan spoke forcefully, a little too much so as his simmering temper flared.

"Then clearly you do not trust us," Athos delivered with a face set in stone, taking quick steps to close the distance between them until d'Artagnan felt his hot breath upon his rain-chilled cheeks. "If you did then you would not have thought to enact your own justice tonight."

"He burnt down my farm, Athos!" d'Artagnan snarled, a very brave or very foolish act in the face of the musketeer's wrath. "My father's only legacy and my one source of income. Without it I am destitute. I haven't even the funds to raise for that damn competition." He finally broke eyes with the snarling beast before him, glaring down instead at his bare feet, hands clenched at his sides in impotent fury.

"Your heart—," a finger jabbed painfully into his sternum. A solid cuff knocked him off balance, "—not your head!"

"It is not your business what I choose to do outside of the Captain's command," D'Artagnan heard himself spew hotly, knowing his angry words came from the black pit of loss and despair that twisted painfully in his gut.

Athos grasped a firm grip about the young man's neck, putting them closer so that their forehead's touched.

"If you endanger yourself it is," he panted, eyes burning through d'Artagnan's. "If you break the law, commit murder, get yourself killed! Then it is my business!" He pushed away to stamp about the room, a trapped bear in a small cage, arms thrust out to wildly punctuate his speech. "You made it our business when you allied yourself to us, when you walk by our side, train with us. We are your brothers."

"I am not a musketeer!" d'Artagnan shouted, the truth of that stinging hot tears behind his eyes that he refused to let fall. "And without the farm, I never will be!"

Athos stopped his wild pacing and turned upon his charge once more. "In all but name, young one, you are," he simmered, thrusting a pointed finger toward him. "You are a fighter, d'Artagnan. Can you truly believe that this is the end to your aspirations? Love, courage, honour – these you possess in great wealth, the true markings of a musketeer. What is money to that?"

"A fine thing for a Comte to say," d'Artagnan snarled, wishing instantly that he had not.

"I only wish what is best for you," Athos said, filling the silence of those awful, jealous words. "But without trust we can be brothers no longer."

"What are you saying?" d'Artagnan asked, dreadful suspicion rising from his gut to make bile in his throat.

"This is not the first time that you have disobeyed my orders, or that of Porthos, or Aramis," Athos said sternly, "You seem to think yourself above even Treville. Without unity, we fall."

"All for one, one for all," d'Artagnan muttered the words etched into his heart.

"If I cannot trust you to obey me, or any other musketeer in the garrison, then you are as good as dead already," Athos snarled. He stalked to the low table, snatching an open bottle and taking a deep draught of wine. "I will not risk the lives of my men and your own for your rash idiocy."

"You do not mean that," d'Artagnan croaked, the bile chocking him.

"I do."

"Then you are finished with me?" D'Artagnan swallowed. First his father, then the farm, now this? What was next? Would Constance also desert him? He quickly chided himself for that treacherous thought, knowing his love was as steadfast as her name.

"I see no other option," Athos sighed and took another deep draught.

"Is there no way I can regain your trust?"

Fighting back his tears, d'Artagnan stared at the man as long as he was able, begging him to speak. After a long minute of agony he resigned himself and turned slowly to the door.

"One way, perhaps."

The words were gruff, spoken almost reluctantly, but d'Artagnan clung to them like a lifeline.

"Anything!"

"At the sacrifice of your dignity? Your pride?" Athos demanded. His eyes softened as he chided: "It is your pride that so often lands you in trouble, after all."

D'Artagnan knew then that whatever the man asked would not be some simple task. Perhaps to kill someone? Or commit some foul crime? At that moment, d'Artagnan felt sure he would open the king's throat himself if Athos demanded it of him.

"Name it," he said firmly.

"Your difficulty lies in submission," Athos said, keeping his attention upon the bottle which was running low. "If you submit to me, and follow my orders to the letter, here and now, then I shall believe that you are truly repentant and ready to change."

D'Artagnan took a knee, looking up at Athos with familiar eyes of admiration. "I swear it."

Athos quirked a smile and drained the bottle, setting it down with a determined clink.

"Remove your breeches."

D'Artagnan frowned. "Your pardon?"

Athos took a leisurely stroll to his cot and sat upon it. His gaze met with d'Artagnan's, sending a warning shiver up the young man's spine.

"I am going to thrash you, d'Artagnan, quite thoroughly, on your bare arse."

"You must be joking!" d'Artagnan scoffed, leaping up with a shake of his head.

"I am not."

D'Artagnan stared, slack-mouthed at his mentor for a moment and then broke into half-hearted laughter. "You had me going for a moment, Athos. Alright, I understand. Breaking into the Bastille to kill LaBarge was a fool thing to do, worthy—" he sniggered at the absurdity "—of a child's punishment. I almost believed you were serious all this time..."

Athos had still said nothing. His face was deadpan, unreadable.

D'Artagnan's laughter died to a nervous chuckle. "Come now, Athos. Let's stop kidding around."

"I have made my offer," Athos said, his voice hard. "Walk out of that door and see if I am in jest."

"You must be," d'Artagnan said weakly.

"I assure you, I am not."

D'Artagnan was struck dumb. He could not fathom what his friend was saying. A few cuffs now and then he knew he had earned, and perhaps this time he was due a beating worthy of Porthos himself. But what Athos was suggesting was so patently absurd that it defied any sense d'Artagnan could make of it.

"I am waiting," Athos said, startling him out of his deep thoughts.

"Athos..." d'Artagnan began weakly.

"Let me add that I do not do this lightly, or to disgrace you," Athos cut in. "But I will not deny that I wish to do this. You are greatly deserving of a sound thrashing, and it will be my pleasure to deliver it."

D'Artagnan could not believe that he was hearing his sentence spoken in such blunt terms. He simply gaped at Athos and then felt his temper flare.

"Your pleasure?" he demanded incredulously.

"Indeed. But do not mistake that for a desire to hurt you," Athos said, his body still as a statue, the only focus his calm, measured voice, "Quite the opposite. Aramis, Porthos and I hold the greatest of affection for you. To lose you would be a piercing wound to our hearts. Believe me when I say, I do this in the hope that you shall learn from it, that we might never suffer so grievous a blow."

D'Artagnan's resistance wavered under this uncommon outflow of affection from the usually stoic musketeer. He felt a hard lump of emotion catching in his throat, burning as fiercely as the tears that he rapidly blinked from the corners of his eyes.

"If I submit to this, I will regain your favour?" he asked, stepping away from the disbelief and steeling himself for a most unpleasant task.

"Do you swear to follow my orders, to the letter, and without question?"

"Even if you tell me to kiss the Cardinal?" d'Artagnan quipped, he couldn't help himself, the situation was so absurd he had to make a joke. His smile faltered under Athos' intense stare.

"Sorry. Yes, I swear it."

"Then I believe I gave you an order."

D'Artagnan hurried to obey, flushing scarlet as his breeches dropped away. Athos' borrowed shirt thankfully provided him modesty, looking almost like a nightshirt on the boy's slender frame. As he stepped toward the musketeer, d'Artagnan absently wondered how long he would have to keep his backside hidden from Constance's intimate attentions.

"You're going to..." he said, noting that Athos seemed disinclined to move from his position on the cot. He stared down at the man's lap and gestured half-heartedly. "I have to..."

"Lay yourself over my lap, d'Artagnan." The order was almost gentle. Clearly the man knew what a wrench to the young man's dignity this was going to prove.

Obeying, albeit hesitantly, d'Artagnan found himself up against the coverlet at the foot of the cot, his legs dangling uselessly above the floorboards, ridiculously exposed. He felt a flash of panic then, but did nothing save to clutch at the thick coverlet and tense himself. He took a shuddering breath, feeling Athos moving above him, tugging him into a more agreeable position and wrapping an arm about his waist. As if he would attempt to escape now that he had made up his mind! D'Artagnan huffed. He steeled himself, vowing not to make the slightest sound that would be a further blow to what shred of dignity remained.

"I warn you now," Athos said from above him, "this shall not prove easy for you. I am determined to continue until I am certain you are truly repentant. Do not think that you shall see this through without further loss of dignity. Remember: only your full submission will convince me of your sincerity."

"You have it," d'Artagnan ground out through clenched teeth.

Athos made a small, unidentifiable noise. "We shall see."

D'Artagnan was focused upon the coverlet, his mind already beginning to absence itself from his body's impending pain, but at the first crack of palm against sensitive flesh, his eyes flew wide open and he suppressed a gasp. He quickly recovered, grimacing soundlessly into the bedspread as more blows followed.

It had been many years since he had felt his father's hand in a similar manner, half a lifetime ago, before hand had given way to hard leather, and then nothing at all. He believed at that point he had grown out of such things. Clearly he had been wrong.

This was no child's punishment either. These were not the measured blows of a man to a young boy. These were the sincere, unrestrained wallops of one full-grown man to another, and they stang like hellfire on his unprotected flesh.

Still, d'Artagnan vowed to keep silent, pressing his face into the coverlet and gulping deep breaths, letting them out as regularly as he was able. No sound passed his lips, even when the man laid down hard swats upon his upper thighs and the sensitive crease where he would feel it most when sitting.

He felt as if Athos had stripped all the skin from his backside, and still the swats came, an even pace and predictable pattern that worked from top to bottom and back again, leaving no inch uncovered.

Sweat was pouring from d'Artagnan and he grasped the coverlet convulsively. Still he made no noise, and made no move to escape his punishment. He wondered just how long Athos meant to prolong this torture, knowing that he was close to breaking point, fighting that shame with all that he had.

Abruptly Athos stopped, and d'Artagnan could swear the man was not even breathing heavily. He took a long moment to collect himself and then pushed himself slowly away from the musketeers knees.

"Go to the corner and face the wall," Athos ordered, pointing to the furthermost corner opposite the door.

D'Artagnan did not believe he could blush more, but at the man's orders he felt heat flare upon his cheeks. Still he said nothing, but walked as slowly as he dared to the corner, careful not to aggravate his stinging backside. A lance of pain had him shooting a hand back to rub the sore flesh, but he jerked it away before he shamed himself before Athos further.

"Hands on your head, lad."

D'Artagnan bit his lips hard. Didn't Athos trust him even in that?

Determined to see this out to the end, he made no comment and instead focused his anger upon the boards of the wall.

He heard Athos rise and walk to his table. There was a chink of glass and then a disappointed sigh as the musketeer realised his bottle was empty.

"Wait there until I return."

This was too much, even for d'Artagnan's vow. "Please," he ventured, as respectfully as he could.

"Speak."

"Am I to stand here all night? How long will you be gone?" D'Artagnan hated the pleading tone he heard in his own voice and grimaced at the wall. He heard the older man chuckle.

"You shall stand there until I am through with you. If you move from that position before I return, I shall take that as my answer."

And then he was gone, leaving d'Artagnan with only silence and his own thoughts for company. To his dismay, the door below opened and then shut, a key turning in the lock. Athos must have drunk his house dry, d'Artagnan thought bitterly, hoping that the man would hurry on his visit to the taverns.

It seemed like hours that he stood there, alone and silent but for the soft muttering of the night time streets. The minutes stretched long but it was with incredulity that d'Artagnan heard the clocks striking a quarter, then, years later, another.

In fact, less than an hour had passed when d'Artagnan heard the key turning in the door below. He sighed in relief, wincing as his burning skin reminded him to keep still. His muscles ached for their earlier tension, and aside from his backside he was chilled without a fire in the grate.

D'Artagnan tensed when he heard the tread of more than one pair of boots below. He almost broke his vow then, fearing an attack of some kind, or worse – exposure! Then he heard the deep rumble of Porthos, and Aramis' lilting tones in reply, and relaxed somewhat.

He couldn't fathom why Athos would bring their friends here. Perhaps they had met upon the road and Athos could not shake them. There was no other explanation. D'Artagnan silently begged Athos to get rid of their friends quickly, biting his lips together in shame and dropping his head low as he heard the trio moving about the parlour. A nasty thought crept into his mind, however. What if Athos had brought them deliberately, and was seeking to humiliate him further? D'Artagnan did not know if he could bear that shame.

There were steps on the stair and d'Artagnan's eyes fluttered closed in mortification. He knew he should move, recover some of his dignity before his friends found him in such a compromising position. But his vow to Athos turned his legs to stone, and so he satisfied his deep frustration by knocking his head in slow thuds against the wall. The door opened.

No one spoke, but d'Artagnan could hear someone move to the table, a telltale chink of a bottle suggesting it was Athos who had taken a seat.

D'Artagnan wished the pits of hell would open beneath his feet and swallow him whole.

"My turn, I think," he heard Aramis say.

As he was processing the horrible meaning of this, d'Artagnan heard Porthos rumble in protest.

"Why you?"

"Because, my dear fellow, you are still far too angry for us to leave the boy to your mercies."

"Aramis is right, old friend," Athos spoke from the corner. "He shall take his turn with our young renegade, and you shall join me and calm your spirits with this nearly decent bottle of chateaux nove."

D'Artagnan had said nothing during the course of this conversation but the fingers laced behind his head were gripped so firmly that they showed white, his breathing heavy and his lips aching from being bitten together so long.

"He's angry," Aramis remarked.

"Then he's in good company," Porthos growled.

"Porthos and Aramis count themselves with me as your closest allies and mentors within the musketeers," Athos explained, staving off the outburst that was close to erupting from the boy. "It is for them to decide whether you are to be trusted for themselves."

"Will you be inviting Treville in next?" d'Artagnan snapped acerbically, unable to hold his tongue any longer.

The air grew cold, and d'Artagnan licked his lips nervously, wondering if he had gone too far.

"You didn't thrash him hard enough, Athos," Porthos said. D'Artagnan heard the large musketeer crossing to the vacant chair and dragging it out to sit heavily.

The sound of wine being poured was accompanied by the Spaniard's heeled boots clicking across the floor. Beside d'Artagnan the bed creaked as Aramis settled himself upon it.

"Come here, Charles."

D'Artagnan grimaced at the wall and thought about disobeying. But to admit defeat now would be to invite worse ridicule from these three men whom he admired with every fibre of his being.

His body was stiff from its long stint against the wall, and as he moved the burning in his rear ignited once more. He winced once, but kept any other outward signs of discomfort at bay.

For the first time since they had entered, d'Artagnan was able to see his friends faces, and what was there disturbed him greatly. Instead of mockery in their eyes as he had expected, he saw only grim determination. There was no desire for humiliation here, and it seemed neither was taking this lightly. This knowledge made d'Artagnan's feet leaden as he crept closer to Aramis.

Clearly he was taking too long, for the man's patience gave way. Aramis half-rose, catching d'Artagnan behind the elbow and pulling him off balance so that he fell over his lap.

After several prolonged moments of repositioning and fuss, Aramis pulled back d'Artagnan's shirt, exposing his rear for inspection.

"A shade of pink I have never seen outwith a strumpet's lips," Aramis said with a grin plain in his voice.

Strangely enough, these words helped d'Artagnan to relax. Here was the Aramis he knew, still with him in the room, but buried beneath what appeared to be a quite smouldering rage.

"I remember my tutor at the monastery, brother Benedict," Aramis said as he carefully folded the shirt away from his target. "He favoured a yard stick for my corrections. You don't happen to have one handy, Athos?"

Aramis' tone was light but held a serious enough note that d'Artagnan could not be entirely certain he was in jest. He turned his head from where it had been buried within the pillows and stared up at his captor in wide-eyed alarm.

"Unfortunately not," Athos murmured from over his glass, his lips twisted upward wryly. Beside him, Porthos tucked his chin to his chest and chuckled at his boots.

"A pity," Aramis shrugged and then met d'Artagnan's gaze with a glittering eye, "next time I shall endeavour to be more prepared."

D'Artagnan flushed and tuned back to the fore. "There will be no next time, monsieur," he grated icily into the pillows. Damn Aramis, and damn Porthos, and especially damn Athos. If this was what it took to regain his place at their side he would take it, but if they thought he would give them any satisfaction of a more heated response they were about to be disappointed.

Aramis gave a disbelieving snort and by the shift in the air d'Artagnan knew he was raising his hand to deliver his first swat. He gripped the pillows tightly and grit his teeth. Still when it landed, the sting was far beyond his expectation. The short break between his punishments had served only to heighten his sensitivity it seemed, as each swat brought a thousand prickling needles of fire upon his flesh.

He could not help the short gasp of shock that escaped at that, but as before, he steeled himself, closing his eyes tightly shut and bearing the pain with an iron will.

He turned his thoughts to more pleasant times. Gascony's summer sun, bathing in the river and slumbering at its banks, his father teaching him to ride in the open pastures beside the mill... He gave an involuntary kick, grimacing. No more mill. No more farm. The memories were tainted by LaBarge's foul deeds.

Constance.

Constance was there. Kissing. Loving. Her smile, her laugh, her gentle singing that softly woke him each day as she made the morning's bread.

A harsh swat, directly to his undercurve, brought him gasping from his fantasies.

"It seems I do not have your full attention," Aramis said lightly. "Am I boring you, young Gascony?"

There was no answer to that, and so d'Artagnan remained silent. His backside was a fire now, the random manner of Aramis' blows serving to further increase his discomfort as he could not predict where the next explosion of pain would come from.

"Perhaps I should break the silence" Aramis said, his voice still light. His hand flicked down, the wrist snapping in a manner that left considerable sting in its wake. "Well now, what should we discuss, hmm? Perhaps I shall tell you about my evening so far? I was with a rather delightful patroness, though her choice in canine companions is less than desirable. In fact my evening was rather spoilt when I met with Athos and heard of your deeds. That he was barely in time to save your life before LaBarge squeezed it out of you."

D'Artagnan tried to ignore the man, but was finding it increasingly impossible. He turned his head to face the wall and huffed in irritation.

"He should have let me kill him."

Aramis gave a curt laugh and if it were possible increased his pace upon poor d'Artagnan's rear. "Indeed. So tell me, little renegade. If you had killed LaBarge, what then?"

"Then I would have been avenged!"

"Ah yes, for your father's farm... his only legacy as I believe you put it to Athos before... Tell me, Charles, what are you to Alexander d'Artagnan if not his legacy?"

D'Artagnan stilled, staring at the plain walls in disbelief. He hadn't thought of it like that before.

"And what legacy do you think you would make for him, arrested for murder, and hung as a common criminal? For that would have been your fate, had you killed LaBarge."

D'Artagnan gripped the pillows until the fingers ached. "He deserved to die," he chocked.

"But not by your hand. Not in the Bastille," Aramis snapped. He had yet not let up his wicked pace. "You ignored our warnings, ignored common sense itself, and decided to risk death and disgrace to your father's name for revenge."

The breath caught in d'Artagnan's throat. He had not considered what would have come after. A wetness dripping on his chin surprised him, and he suddenly realised that he was crying.

Shamed beyond belief, d'Artagnan pressed his face into the pillows and tried to hide the sobs that wracked him. A disgrace. He was a disgrace to his father. He had risked dishonouring his heritage for scum like LaBarge. Worse, he had risked the honour of the Musketeers, with whom he would surely have been associated. The cardinal would have seized that opportunity to bring dishonour upon his rival guards. Thinking clearly on it, the whole thing could have ended in disaster.

The swats had ended, he was unsure when, so focused was he on hiding his tears. He felt sturdy arms wrap around him, lifting him from Aramis' lap and then the world turned as Porthos – it must be Porthos to lift him with such ease – spun about to take his brother's place upon the cot, d'Artagnan in his lap.

D'Artagnan hung his head, letting his hair fall forward over his face to hide his weakness. The dread he felt at the prospect of being at the mercy of Porthos was a leaden weight in his stomach, but far worse was the notion that he could lose the favour of all three men should his cowardice be discovered.

But the anticipated blows did not begin. Instead d'Artagnan flinched as one of Porthos' meaty paws rested upon his head.

"He ain't hurt," he heard the man seek confirmation.

"LaBarge left some bruises, a few minor burns, but nothing permanent," Athos' replied steadily.

"Burns?!" Porthos' voice was filled with concern but also angry disbelief.

If it were possible, d'Artagnan felt himself slipping even further into despair, giving up the idea that he would ever sit a horse again. Porthos liked to maintain a happy-go-lucky air in the face of danger, but in private d'Artagnan had experienced the man's overly protective side. After any skirmish he seemed always nearby, ensuring without ever asking that his comrades were healthy and whole. Knowing that he had caused the large man displeasure was not a comforting thought.

"Nothing permanent, I promise you."

The hand relaxed some of its grip and Porthos took a deep, satisfied breath, letting it out slowly.

"Aramis ain't the only one that had plans tonight," he said to d'Artagnan in conversational tones, his hand beginning to stroke gently through the boy's hair. D'Artagnan wanted to protest at the treatment, but the comfort was a salve to his wounded pride and besides, he could not trust his voice not to betray him should he speak out.

"Don't tell me you were successful with the Madame candlemaker's widow?" Aramis spoke from his place at the table.

"Thirty livre and a damn good meal," Porthos announced proudly.

At mention of the entry fee he still had no hope of raising, d'Artagnan could not suppress a muffled sob, hating himself for it.

"Might even see her again," Porthos said as if he hadn't heard. "Shame it couldn't a' gone different tonight."

"You shouldn't have bothered yourself with me," d'Artagnan found himself saying, his voice hitching enough to make him flush with shame. "A coward like me is unworthy of your time."

Porthos' hand fell down with such devastating solidity that for a moment d'Artagnan was left unable to breathe. Another powerful swat, covering near half his backside, had him let forth a wail of complete despair.

"You ain't a coward, kid," Porthos growled above him. "An idiot, yeah, and as bad tempered as a mule, but not a coward."

"I am!" d'Artagnan protested kicking his feet and twisting the coverlet mercilessly. "I'm weak and useless. How can you bear to be in my compane—ee!"

Another swat propelled him forward, the hand lingering where it had struck adding warmth to the prickling skin.

"Say that again and I won't hold back."

"Porthooooos," d'Artagnan groaned into the coverlet, twisting and kicking, trying to scramble free.

No more blows fell but the damage was done, and d'Artagnan could not stem the outflowing of sorrow that voiced itself as sobs and moans. His tears flowed unchecked and he burnt to know that his idols were watching him fall into such a compromised state.

"I told you I wouldn't stop until I knew you were truly repentant," Athos said smoothly from his seat. "Do you think I did not expect this when I began?"

"We think no less of you for this, Charles," Aramis said in his silken tones. "Any man would become undone in a similar situation."

"You're up against the three greatest musketeers of all time after all," Porthos chuckled.

But d'Artagnan was lost in his world of misery and did not respond to the men's kind words. Another clap of Porthos' hand had him arching and wailing, grasping at the air as he fought to escape the pain.

"In fact, lesser men would have conceded defeat a long time ago," said Aramis. "It is not just any man who accepts such a thorough loss of dignity with so much courage."

"I only w-wish to regain your f-favour," d'Artagnan wailed.

"You have it," Porthos grunted, laying down another hearty slap upon the boy's rear. "Aramis is right. Even I'd have given this a second thought."

"You can't mean that," d'Artagnan chocked, shaking his head wildly. "I near- nearly b-brought disgrace to the musketeers. I dis- disobeyed your orders and acted ra- rashly."

"You forget, young Gascony, that we are ourselves no angels," Aramis countered. "Do you think that you are the first amongst our ranks to act rashly? Why even Athos—"

"He understands," Athos cut in swiftly. "No man is infallible. But we cannot be blamed for wishing to keep you from harm."

"If that means tanning your hide every day of your life, we're all for it," Porthos said heartily. His hand slapped down again, and again, and again. D'Artagnan howled, thrashing and fighting to be freed but to no avail. One hot, punishing blow after another landed on his seared flesh, until no part of it was left untouched.

"I'm sorry," he heard himself weep. "I'm sorry. Sorry. So sorry!"

The hand stilled and d'Artagnan slumped forward, sobbing fitfully into the coverlets, which were by now a sodden mess. During this misery he heard someone rise from the table, crouching down beside him as a hand caressed his head.

"We near lost you this night, boy," Athos breathed, his wine-rich breath ruffling d'Artagnan's silken hair. "But I at least am satisfied that we shall not see a repeat of such foolishness."

"Aye," Porthos said, his voice a grin, one heavy hand running slow circles into the boy's back.

"I also," Aramis said as his hands came to draw d'Artagnan up and sit him upon Porthos' knee. He was supported by Porthos' sturdy arms, one still rubbing his back gently.

D'Artagnan hung his head, ashamed to reveal his face despite his fellows' assurances. A hand brushed his hair aside, stroking one tear-drenched cheek as the owner spoke.

"Raise your head, d'Artagnan."

Unable to disobey Athos' firm command, d'Artagnan did so but avoided the man's eyes. A moment later and he had no choice, his chin taken in a firm grip and turned to meet his mentor's gaze.

"There was no shame in this," Athos said calmly. "You took your lashing in the true spirit of a musketeer, and I am proud of you."

D'Artagnan stared, wide-eyed at the man, then instantly burst into violent sobs. He lunged out, wrapping his arms about Athos and burying his head into the man's neck, weeping fit to burst.

Above him Porthos and Aramis exchanged a wry smile, enjoying the discomfort of their brother, who patted d'Artagnan on the shoulder, muttering gentle nonsense until the boy had calmed.

Once his sorrows had been thoroughly wept out, d'Artagnan began to become aware of his compromised position, sitting bare and thoroughly red-arsed upon Porthos' lap whilst the three men he admired most in the world watched him crying like a child. He withdrew his hands quickly from Athos' neck and rose, stepping away from the three.

"Thank you for your tolerance," he muttered to the ground, "May I leave now, please?"

"You may not," Athos scoffed.

"It is nearly three in the morning," Aramis pointed out when d'Artagnan's head shot up to protest this refusal.

"D'you really want to be pulling your breeches on just now?" Porthos asked with a knowing wink.

D'Artagnan flushed. He most certainly did not.

"All the same..."

"You will stay here until we leave for morning muster," Athos interrupted the lad firmly. "Say one more word on the matter if you like. I assure you, my arm is not tired."

D'Artagnan saw that he was defeated and gave an awkward nod. He took one step toward the door before Athos laid a restricting hand upon his chest.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"To the parlour."

The three musketeers exchanged a look that seemed to be a mix of fond mockery, as one might bestow upon a puppy taking its first steps. Athos moved his hand to support d'Artagnan's upper arm and gently directed the lad back to the bed, easing him down upon his stomach. A raised brow of warning was all it took to stem the first sign of protests from their charge.

D'Artagnan's discomfort was growing rapidly and he cast his eyes away from their attentive stares as he hesitantly requested privacy.

"We ain't going nowhere, kid," Porthos refused with a hearty chuckle. He settled himself upon a chair and kicked out his big legs, crossing them over one another as he tipped his hat forward, clearly intending to sleep where he was.

"If you think we would leave you now, you've clearly learnt nothing, young Gascony," Aramis stated as he took the second chair, mirroring his brother's actions in the second chair with a deal more flourish.

Athos simply gave d'Artagnan a wry smile and sat himself at the foot of the cot, leaning against the wall, his legs resting with comforting solidity over the lad's calves. He was pinned now, unable to make any retreat even if he desired to.

D'Artagnan glanced around his comrades in wonder. How could they treat this moment with such indifference? He had just been administered the worst hiding of his life and the three acted as if it were the end of any other day - Porthos was already snoring!

He shifted as discomfort still radiated from his skin and huffed miserably into the pillows.

"What troubles you, lad?" Athos murmured, his eyes closed and his head shrouded by his hat.

"How can you ask me that?" d'Artagnan hissed, taking care to keep his voice low.

"Surely you can bear a little discomfort."

D'Artagnan could hear the grin in the man's voice. "It's not the pain that bothers me," he said, close to despair.

"You still think that we should be shunning your company perhaps?" Athos murmured. "That because you shed a few tears we would consider you less a man?"

"Anyone would," d'Artagnan muttered bitterly into the covers.

"Would you think so of us, if the situation were reversed?"

D'Artagnan stilled. "Of course not! You there are the strongest, bravest men I have ever met."

"Then you have your answer, young sir," Athos replied.

"None of you would not weep at such a thing," d'Artagnan said with conviction.

"Are you certain? Perhaps you should ask Aramis about the Burgundian Incident."

"If we are on that subject, Athos has a fine story to tell involving two milkmaids and a painted horse," Aramis whispered from his chair.

"You're awake?" Athos said in chagrined surprise.

"And a good thing too. Seems our young charge is not the only one who should consider the consequences of his actions."

"You're not seriously telling me that either of you were...?" D'Artagnan couldn't bring himself to speak such plainly ridiculous words.

"The captain Treville is as tolerant as a soldier can be," Athos said by way of answer. "But even he has a limit no man may safely cross. You may wish to consider that, the next time you are about to act in a foolhardy manner."

"But you—!"

"Enough talk now," Athos interrupted. "We have a busy day ahead if you want to win that competition."

D'Artagnan's heart sank at the prospect of training. His backside throbbed mightily and his body was weary with strain.

"What's the point in practice if I don't even have the entry fee?" he bargained.

"Nice try, Gascony," Aramis chuckled. "Do as Athos says and perhaps I can convince him to let you train at muskets for the whole morning."

Standing still behind a musket instead of the frenzied dance of a duel sounded blissful to d'Artagnan and he wisely buried his head into the pillows, saying no more.

Outside the bells began to toll and, despite his throbbing rear, d'Artagnan drifted into peaceful sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't usually cross-post my spanking works from ff.net - since I preferr to keep the smut separate, but I felt that the fandom was perhaps more active here and would appreciate the story!


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